


Something Rotten

by Beyondthelimit8266



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hamlet is dramatic, M/M, Multi, Murder, horatio is tired, the boys are doing some detecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 06:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14514675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beyondthelimit8266/pseuds/Beyondthelimit8266
Summary: Hamlet is pretty certain his uncle killed his dad. Horatio is tired. Neither of them of them are detectives, but damn if they’re not going to do some mystery solving.





	Something Rotten

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this on my phone in the middle of the night. Take it as you will.

Hamlet was being a lil’ shit, as per usual. 

Horatio should have been getting used to it, as this wasn’t the first time Hamlet began acting like a psychopath for no discernible reason, but, alas, he somehow found he was surprised. 

Right now, Hamlet was busy slathering the walls of his apartment in streaky black paint. Horatio certainly wasn’t expecting that as he walking in with the takeout he’d promised to pick up on his way home from work. 

“What in the ever loving hell are you doing?” He cried, dropping the takeout onto the floor. He hardly noticed the egg rolls escaping from the bag and tumbling away. “This is a rented apartment!” 

“Sure is.” Was Hamlet’s response. “But I found myself wanting to paint the walls something a bit more... fitting to my mood.” To punctuate this, he dropped his soaked paint brush into the half empty paint can, splattering black onto the carpet, and the white trim of the wall. 

“Mood? The fuck kinda mood leads to this?” Horatio exclaims mournfully, wondering how the hell he was going to fix this. 

Hamlet shrugs, and shifts his weight, which leads Horatio’s eyes to the black pants and then the black shoes, which happened to be speckled with black paint, which happened to be tracking black paint through the carpet. 

This was getting out of hand. 

“It’ll be fine.” Is Hamlet’s monotone response, and already Horatio is tired of his vague and emo bullshit. 

“Yeah? The people renting this place out to us could sue, ya know! Crap, when was the last time anyone read the contract? Did it say anything about painting the walls? What about replacing the carpet, cause this is just-“ 

“My dad died.” 

That ends Horatio’s rant right there, because that was not what he was expecting. However, standing there and gaping at Hamlet’s paint splattered self allows him to really look at his best friend and closest confidant, and he realizes he has never seen Hamlet like this before. 

His face is loose and sunken, as if there was nothing at all holding it up. His lips are one thin line and his eyes are glassy and dull, as though covered in a film. His back is rounded, his shoulders rolled forward. His arms are limp at his side. 

He’s a puppet with its strings cut, as though the only thing holding him up was the fact that if he couldn’t find it in him to sleep. 

“Oh, jeez, Hamlet, I’m so sorry. When?” 

“Yesterday. In the evening.” 

“Wow, Hamlet, I’m so so sorry.” Everything in Horatio is telling him to envelop his friend in a hug so deep all they can hear is each other’s heart beat. He doesn’t want to spout off cliches that Hamlet wouldn’t appreciate, he doesn’t want to be distant. Horatio wants Hamlet to know he’s right here, and that he’ll always be right here. 

However, he finds himself rooted to the spot, confused. 

Scared.

He’s scared that if he touches his best friend, he’ll shatter right beneath his fingertips and be gone. 

“Do you know how?” Horatio ask gently. Hamlet shudders. 

“Snake bite, they say. Found him laid out in the garden, you know. Turned his blood into cottage cheese.”

“Jesus...” Horatio doesn’t know what else to say. Fortunately, Hamlet speaks for him. 

“I don’t think it was a snake.” 

“What?” 

“He was murdered.” 

This gives Horatio slight pause. “Murdered? Hamlet-“ 

“By Claudius.”

“Claudius? You mean your-“ 

“My uncle murdered my father.” 

Horatio blinks at Hamlet, praying for him to spring into liveliness and say, “I was kiddin’ ‘Tio. I’m always kiddin’.” But Hamlet’s face is set like stone, and his eyes are hard and unwavering. 

“Hamlet... have you... did you take your Ativan today?” 

At this, Hamlet’s face contorts into a deep scowl. It transforms his naturally handsome face into something unnerving and ugly to look at. 

“I’ll have you know, ‘Tio,” he spits Horatio’s good natured nickname out like it’s something that tastes foul, “ I did. This morning. Like I always do. I’m not delusional or anything.” 

Horatio swallows nervously. He has absolutely no idea what to do right now. “Of course not, Hammie, but you gotta realize... I mean, you accusing your uncle of murdering your father. What’s the proof?” 

“I had a dream.”

“A... a dream. You had a dream... that you uncle killed your dad. And you’re taking this as... proof?” 

“Don’t patronize me, Horatio. I know how it sounds. But... but, somehow I know this is right!” Hamlet’s watery eyes connect with his, and Horatio is face to face with a desperation that he has never witnessed before. 

It’s the desperation of a starving man. 

A dying man. 

“Okay. Okay, Hamlet. Just calm down, alright?” Horatio struggled to find what to say next. 

Grappling, he murmured, “Do you need help painting the walls?” 

Hamlet’s mouth snaps shut. He swallows hard a couple of times, then says in a voice similar to that of a child lost in the woods, “Yeah. Yeah. That would help.”


End file.
